It Ain't Easy to be Me
by Darkest Desire
Summary: Being the boy-who-lived can sure be a pain in the butt sometimes; Voldemort making attempts on your life once a year, the Dursleys for relatives, Malfoy and his snide remarks, Dumbledore and his stupid twinkling eyes…What’s a boy to do?


Summary: Being the boy-who-lived can sure be a pain in the butt sometimes; Voldemort making attempts on you life once a year, the Dursleys for relatives, Malfoy and his snide remarks, Dumbledore and his stupid twinkling eyes...What's a boy to do?

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CHAPTER ONE: JUST ANOTHER PERFECTLY NORMAL ORDINARY DAY

Red eyes, bore into him, freezing him in place with their penetrating gaze. The rest of the features weren't much less terrifying; small, stub of a nose with slits for nostrils, pale, deathly white skin, stringy black hair falling limply to the shoulders.

Harry vaguely, despite the horror beginning to seize him, realized, perhaps for the first time, how much Voldemort looked like Michael Jackson—only scarier (if that's even possible)—as odd as it sounds. The resemblance was uncanny, really, and now that Harry had noticed it, he almost expected Voldemort to stand up from the black, marble thrown he was perched on like he was king of the world (though perhaps in _his_ mind he was, or at least soon _would_ be) and start moon walking across the shiny, black floor.

He was broken out of his, somewhat disturbing, thoughts, though, as the snake-faced, Michael Jackson look alike began to speak. "Harry Potter," it spoke slowly, stretching each syllable out as long as possible. Harry had never thought it possible (though Snape had come extremely close several times), but the sound of his own name had sent a shiver up and down his spine—a shiver of disgust that is—and the little hairs on the back of his neck now stood on end. "Surprised to see me?" the magically deformed, former human continued.

Harry was both surprised and relieved to notice that the creepy tone that had formerly been in Voldemort's voice was now gone; so much so that it took a minute for the words that had been spoken to sink in. Finally, he answered, "Umm...not really," he replied somewhat uncertainly. _Was I supposed to be?_ he felt like asking, but decided against it, keeping the question to himself.

"Quite a lovely place you have here," he commented instead, with only mild sarcasm. For some reason it had seemed the most appropriate thing to say; his Aunt Petunia would be proud of him for his politeness...if she didn't hate him no matter what he did, that is.

Voldemort seemed a least mildly surprised by the, rather unexpected (to say the least) question, if his raised eyebrow was anything to go by. (_Is that real or penciled in?_ Harry wondered as he peered at it.) But he recovered quickly. "It is, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically, pride coloring his voice. "This is my throne room," he added unnecessarily.

Now it was Harry's turn to raise an eyebrow in question, as he glanced intently around the room, letting his eyes linger on the only piece of furniture in it—the throne. "Really?" he replied, laying on the sarcasm heavily, "And here I thought it the gym."

Snake-face let out a horrible wheezy, choking sound; Harry got the impression that it was supposed to be a laugh...how sad. _When good magic goes bad_, Harry thought to himself, the voice in his head taking on the sound of one of those announcers (they all sound the bloody same) off one of those lame real life daytime programs that Aunt Petunia so loved to watch (he had only been joking around, but it might actually be an interesting show if they were to make it.)

By now, the horrible 'laugh' had stopped and Voldemort was standing up from his throne, slowly making his way toward Harry. "Interesting..." he practically hissed, sliding ever closer, "It would seem that you are no longer intimidated by me. Are you, boy?"

Harry mulled it over for a minute. _Well, he doesn't seem too bad, but the thought of a red-eyed Michael Jackson is pretty scary._ He couldn't come up with a definitive answer. "I don't know. Should I be?" he replied, growing somewhat apprehensive, though not really scared. _Please, don't start dancing. Please, don't start dancing_, he chanted silently to himself.

"That depends," Voldemort commented softly, making Harry lean slightly toward him in order to hear better. It was as if what would be revealed next was what this whole meeting had been about in the first place; Harry couldn't explain how, but he knew that it was true.

"Depends on what?" he prompted eagerly. He would have been sitting on the edge of his seat by now (had he been sitting on a seat at all.)

"On your response," the Dark Lord answered, drawing out the explanation, clearly enjoying creating an air of suspense about the whole affair.

It was quickly broken, however, by Harry's next comment. "You haven't even asked me a question, yet," he said in confusion, his eyebrows knitting together.

Voldemort's red eyes glared over at the insolent boy. (_How dare he interrupt?!_) "The key word in that sentence being _yet_, my boy," he replied in a strained voice, reigning in his temper—barely; it would do no good to lash out at the boy until _after_ he got his response. "As I was saying...it all depends on you response—" he continued before being abruptly (and quite rudely, if he said so himself) interrupted once again.

"What all depends, again? Can you go back a couple steps? You drew it out so much that now I've forgotten what we were even talking about," Harry broke in in frustration, confusion clearly written across his face.

Voldemort merely let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing his temples in small circles with the tips of his fingers as he felt what he was certain was the onset of a migraine. _How this daft boy managed to defy me—What is it? Five, maybe six times now—is beyond me.  
_  
Trying desperately not to scream out loud as he so wished to do at this moment, Voldemort—excuse me, _Lord_ Voldemort—decided to go back to the beginning an start all over again, though he wasn't so certain any more that he really _wanted_ to ask the question he'd planned on proposing any longer. "Okay. I asked if you were intimidated by me. You asked if you should be. I said that it depends on you response. You asked, 'In response to what?' I was just about to explain, when you interrupted," he finished, through clenched teeth, laying it out nice and clear so that they boy would understand—at least hopefully—not bothering any more to try and make it dramatic like he had the first time around.

"Oh, right. I remember now," Harry replied absently, after a brief pause, nodding his head (presumably for Voldemort to continue.)

"Great," was the Dark Lord's somewhat sarcastic, unamused reply. He hastily continued before Harry could, once again, forget what they were discussing. "I've brought you here to ask you to join me," he said, finally getting to the point, before stopping to let the information sink in and wait for a (hopefully favorable) response.

"Oh," Harry said, a pensive expression coming across his face as he absently chewed on one of his fingernails while deliberating. "Are you going somewhere?" he asked, purposefully misunderstanding what it was being asked of him.

Voldemort merely stood there, glaring daggers at the boy, his lips pressed together in a tight, thin line. He didn't do anything for a whole minute, unless trying not to scream out in frustration counts. Finally, not able to keep it in any longer, he let out an angry shriek, which reverberated of the stone walls, echoing long after the Dark Lord had once again composed himself. _Okay, I feel a little better now. Just one more try. One more try and then he's as good as dead.  
_  
"No, no, my boy. I would like you to join me as one of my followers," he explained as if to a small child, wondering why he was even bothering. "You would be one of my top Death Eaters," _perhaps I should reconsider that,_ "Think of all that I could offer you; power, money, the chance to—" Voldemort began in earnest, before Harry decided that he'd heard enough and abruptly cut in.

"Blah, blah, blah. Did you honestly think _that_ would convince me? Really...you must be losing your touch, old man," he replied lazily, in a drawl almost as good as Malfoy's (not that he'd admit to trying to imitate Malfoy in that regard—or in any for that matter.)

"How dare you!" Voldemort shouted in anger, hastily making a grab for his wand, lifting it to point at Harry as he spoke. "I'm going to kill you, you ungrateful..."

"...little brat!" bellowed Vernon, banging on the door of the second bedroom, waking his nephew up with a start and a muffled scream.

"Oh god," Harry cried in terror, panting as he sat up in his tattered, old bed, sheets clinging to his sweaty body. It was just a dream (an oddly frightening one—or is that odd _and_ frightening—but just a dream none the less.) Just a dream..." he muttered over and over again to himself, trying to quell the frantic pounding of his heart.

"Coming!" he yelled, loud enough for his uncle to hear (even through the door) as he hastily swung his feet out from under the tangled mass of sheets and onto the cold, oak floorboards.

"About time," he heard the fat walrus of a man (also known as his uncle) mutter to himself, though purposefully loudly enough for Harry to overhear. Heavy footsteps sounded, signaling that Vernon was now plodding down the stairs, which was further proven by the creaking sounds that some of the stairs made when his massive weight was applied to them.

_Guess I'd better get dressed now; it really wouldn't do for 'dear' Uncle Vernon to miss his coffee this morning—he might get grouchy_, Harry thought sarcastically to himself, gathering 'his' oversized, shabby clothes before heading to the bathroom to get in a quick shower before he had to go downstairs to make breakfast.

_That dream was so...frightening, weird, horrifying, bizarre...?_ Harry contemplated as he shut and locked the bathroom door. _But this_, Harry reminded himself as he hopped into the shower, turned it on full blast, and began to scrub off the layer of persperation the dream had caused to coat his skin, _this is just like any other normal day in the Dursley household._ Of course, every day was 'normal' here, as the Dursleys had been sure to engrain into him.

"We live a perfectly normal, respectable life," Harry mimicked his Aunt Petunia, even going so far as to imitate her nasally, high pitched voice, as he ran the soap under his arms.

"Hurry up in there!" shrieked the real Aunt Petunia, startling Harry and making him drop the soap as it slipped out of his hands when he squeezed it in shock. _Well, speak of the devil...  
_  
Yep, it was just another perfectly normal, ordinary day, like any other spent at number four Privet Drive.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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Author's Note: Well, there's the first chapter for you. I hope you liked it! I think this is the first humor fic I've done for the Harry Potter fandom...please let me know what you think. I know it was kind of weird and all, but _please_ don't flame me telling me that 'nothing like this would ever happen in the _real_ books!' I know that; that's kind of the whole point. And it's not really _that_ far fetched; most of it was a dream (and they can be pretty weird, you know?) I've already started chapter 2, though I don't know when I'll actually finish it and get it posted. (I also wrote a scene that I thought was pretty funny that won't be used until much further on.) I have plans for this fic, so I'm going to try and keep updating as long as I get positive feedback! 


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